724: Run
by Profiling Hotly
Summary: Hotch/Emily fic inspired by her return in episode 200. Follows their lives post Hit/Run season 7. I'd say I write the character's personalities pretty close to canon but the situation is obviously quite AU.
1. Run

_A/N: I feel that this kind of chapter has been done many times before and I know a lot of the great post season 7 stories I've read have most certainly influenced my writing but I felt strongly inspired after episode 200 to have a crack at writing an epic about where their relationship went post Hit/Run. This chapter is somewhat of a test run, I want to see what reception I get first, so please read and review, I'd appreciate any feedback you can give me. Peace xx._

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><p><em>"Everyone who says hello,<em>

_will one day say goodbye,_

_sometimes without warning,_

_or without giving a reason why."  
>~Unknown.<em>

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><p><strong><em>Tuesday May 29<em>****_th_****_ 2012, 9:37pm_**

"You… you were really going to leave without saying goodbye." he stammered, his voice wavering uncharacteristically as his dark eyes roamed the apartment over the brunette's shoulder.

"Garcia told me you had a case in Miam-."

"I came straight from the airport."

Her own soft brown eyes fell to the floor sheepishly as she shoved her hands in the pockets of her jeans and tried to come up with an adequate response. As hard as she tried, her mind just kept drawing blanks. His presence at her apartment was threatening to surface emotions she had been actively repressing over the last few weeks. And she'd be damned if she lost her control now.

"Why?" she asked earnestly, her voice barely above a whisper.

He sighed, frustration evident in his tired face.

"Can I come in for a minute?" he requested politely, despite knowing that he wasn't really going to take no for an answer. Not when he was about to lose her. He wasn't going to just let her walk away, not this time.

She folded her arms across her chest defensively, biting her lip, her eyes darting back and forth, seeming to focus on everything other than him.

"Emily" he pressed, impatience seeping into his voice.

"Yeah, yes of course," she conceded softly, moving aside to let him into her bare apartment.

Aaron Hotchner swiftly strode into her large living area, taking in how empty the space now felt with only a small sofa by the window and mahogany coffee table furnishing the room. His eyes lingered on the folded clothes on the couch, her small carry-on bag open beside it. She was packing. In her final stage of packing. That bag, it was the same one he had stowed next to his own every flight they had taken together over the past six years. Yet this time she was packing it for a different journey. A journey she was taking alone, without the team. Without him.

He swallowed hard, turning to face her.

"Four days ago you didn't even have a flight booked. Why aren't you giving us the time to say goodbye?"

She was running. He already knew the answer to that question. But he still felt compelled to ask it. His real question wasn't a why. It was a what. What was she running from? He wasn't sure she entirely understood herself. But he had to coax it out of her. If there was one thing he was certain of, it was that if Emily's departure from the States was without goodbyes, if she ran, then the chances of her maintaining relationships with them from across the Atlantic were minimal. She'd shut them out. She'd shut him out.

"Hotch, I've had a department dinner held in my honour, I've had Garcia organise two different team dinners and a girls night out in my honour. How much more of a goodbye do I need? I need time to go and get settled." she replied, her voice even. Her face was stoic, stuck in its mask, not giving away anything.

"Your appointment at Interpol doesn't commence until July," he retorted sharply, meeting her eyes with a piercing glare.

"Yes but-"

"And that's not what I meant by goodbye and you know it," he continued, stepping closer to her, his actions almost silently daring her to move away.

She closed her eyes, breathing heavily, trying to remain in control. Her fingers pulled at the soft cotton of her shirt just at her elbows.

This conversation was ridiculous.

She knew it, he knew it. They both knew it.

Since she rejoined the Bureau ten months ago, after Doyle's capture, they'd grown incredibly close. They had already been close before hand; despite their rocky start, they had bonded quite quickly over her time in the FBI. Her compassion and humour, her empathy and unique ability to read his moods and simply just know what he needed before he did, had made her a person he'd very much come to depend on. She was the one who single-handedly had pulled him out of his emotional slump after Haley's death. They had begun spending more time together outside of the office and she'd become a permanent figure in Jack's life. Yet it wasn't until after Doyle, after he knew the darkest moments that shadowed her past that their friendship really started shifting into something else.

He'd spent many restless nights over the past few months, wishing he hadn't let her say goodnight, wishing he would just take was right in front of him. They had been playing house every second night since her return, quite often more. She'd go round to his place after work and start rummaging up something for dinner. Depending on how late he was, she'd often help Jack with his bath. Get him settled. Once he finally was able to leave the office he'd come home to a cooked meal awaiting, a happy son already wound down and ready for bed. They would eat together, Jack would go to sleep. Then they would just sit and share a daily slice of normal; they'd watch TV snuggled up on the couch together or he'd read while she knit. Or they would just chat about the most mundanely trivial everyday things. And then each night at around ten-thirty she would say goodnight. He'd walk her to the door, they would hug, he'd hold her tight against him and she'd nuzzle her face into his chest, taking momentary comfort in the embrace and then she'd offer him a soft smile before disappearing into the dark of the night.

He wasn't an idiot; he knew she wasn't completely whole yet. He knew she found some sort of feeling of safety and contentment in his presence. But he also knew she had nursed some of the same lingering thoughts about what they could be, if circumstances permitted. He'd seen it in her eyes, felt it in some of the hugs they'd let linger on longer than they had meant to. Despite her need to heal, he held hope that she'd be able to go through that process with him by her side.

However at JJ and Will's wedding three weeks ago everything changed again. As soon as she had confided in him her desire to leave the BAU, to leave the States, all their emotional pretences were forgotten. There was chemistry between them. Something they both privately had acknowledged but simply had chosen to ignore. Hotch had already lost his family once to the Bureau and he hadn't been keen on starting another relationship where he'd be forced to make a choice between the two again. Emily on the other hand had joined the Bureau for a change of pace, a slice at normality… well however normal chasing serial killers could be. It had taken her quite a while to feel as though she'd earned her spot on their team, and so once she felt as though she belonged she decided she valued the job too highly to ever seriously consider throwing it away for a romance that held no certain promise.

Yet after the wedding, things had changed. While the thought of her leaving the team made his insides church for an entirely different set of reasons, one of the first things that dawned on him was that without the Bureau, there was nothing stopping him from chasing what he wanted. And Aaron Hotchner was a man who didn't give up on the things he wanted.

And that determination was the one thing she had feared the most in exposing her choice to him. It was the one thing that held serious potential to make her reconsider, to convince her to stay. And she knew she needed to get out, she needed to get away. She wasn't whole. She needed time to regroup, to truly grieve Doyle and to let him go. She needed time to find herself again. Away from the team, away from him. They had had their 'date', breakfast after the wedding, but it had definitely felt more professional than personal, as she spoke of the opportunity Interpol was offering her and the need she felt for a fresh start. But after that morning she had seemed to recoil inside her shell. She spent most of the following weeks avoiding him both at work and outside of the office. He'd try to catch her at the coffee cart at work, he'd call her with the pretext of Jack wanting to say goodnight at around eight pm, and he'd even paired them together in the field until her resignation had gone through. Yet the harder he pushed, the further she withdrew, and he knew she was slowly slipping through his fingers.

And now here they were; he'd caught her in the nick of time having sped across the motorway off the back of a case. In three and a half hours time she was going to be boarding a flight to leave him, indefinitely.

"I was going to call you at the airport" she confessed, her eyes snapping open as she backed up to lean against the wall, needing something to support her, and a little bit more space between them.

However he wasn't giving up that easily. He moved closer, his eyes soft; hurt swimming in those dark orbs as he looked over her. His large gun-calloused hands found her tiny waist and he heard her breath hitch as he felt her body tense.

"I know you feel it. Don't fight this. Don't run," he pleaded, his tone sounding shockingly uncharacteristic even to his own ears. His thumbs gently ran up and down her sides and he felt her body slowly begin to relax. She looked at him, shaking her head in resistance as he moved closer, his body resting almost flush against hers. She closed her eyes again, unable to stop the hot tears that began to trickle down her face. She pushed her hands against his chest, trying to push him away.

"Aaron don't make this harder than it already is," she whispered as her tears begun to fall freely and she continued trying to worm out of the embrace.

But he wouldn't budge. His grip on her tightened and his dark eyes hardened as he took in her pained expression, and felt her form now shaking uncontrollably under his hands as she began outright sobbing.

"Don't do this," he pressed, taking a hand off of her waist to tilt her head up to look at him. She kept her eyes firmly shut, shaking her head softly as she sobbed.

"Please just g-" she pleaded.

"No" his voice was stern, thick with emotion. He brought his hand back to her waist pinning her once again. And then he lowered his mouth down to hers and caught her soft lips, kissing them passionately, sucking hard on her lower lip as his tongue slipped into her mouth. He ran his tongue along the roof of her mouth and then felt her begin to respond, for the briefest of moments. But just as he thought he was finally getting somewhere she started to shake more in his arms and pulled away. She pushed violently against him, trying to use all her force to get free. He caught her wrists, trying to stop her volatile movements.

"Let me go!" she screamed, her knee coming up between his legs in a last desperate attempt to get away. His training allowed him to foresee the move so he was able to release his grip and back away to dodge her. He looked at her as she slumped onto the floor, her sobs hysterical as she curled up into a little ball. Against the vast empty space of the room she looked so tiny, so fragile. He moved to kneel down and hold her.

"Don't," she begged between a sob, her cry stopping his movements just before he reached her.

He stood up again, watching her feeling overwhelmingly helpless. His whole world, his future, slipping away from him, right in front of his eyes. His body was frozen, he felt a deep pain constricting his chest, panic was setting in.

"Em-"

"Please just go," she repeated, the plea muffled into her legs, almost lost within her sobs.

"I can't… I'm... I'm in love with you" he whispered, the words escaping his lips before he had time to stop them.

She remained in her same position, still crying as she cradled herself in the little ball she'd made. He wondered if she'd even heard him. He stood there watching as after what felt like an eternity her body started to calm and her sobs seemed to lessen. Yet even when she finally seemed composed, she stayed in that same position, refusing to look up at him.

"I know" she finally whispered, making his chest tighten further.

After another minute she finally looked up, resting her head against the wall behind her, her knees tucked up to her chest. Her face was red, her eyes puffy, but her expression read blank. She met his eyes, as her clutch around her knees tightened.

"I need you to leave" she said evenly, her stoic unreadable mask once more adorning her face.

He looked at her incredulously, his usually stoic face anything but as a wild mix of emotions danced across his rugged features. He opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it, when no words would come. His eyes stayed locked onto hers, challenging her to break, to give him something, anything: anger, disappointment, frustration. But he got nothing. She'd put her wall up. She was pushing him out. She was choosing to run. He stayed frozen for several minutes, as the reality of the situation settled on him. As he realised he couldn't control this, he couldn't control her.

And then the anger washed over him, and he knew it was time to leave. Her eyes stayed trained on him and he opened his mouth once more to say something but again, he found himself utterly lost for words.

He turned on his heel and strode out of the apartment, not pausing even for a moment to look back, slamming the door shut behind him.

Little did he know that if he had turned back, he would have seen her break out into a fresh wave of tears, as the grief of what she'd just lost consumed her.


	2. Five weeks, four days & twenty-one hours

A/N: For artistic license, I'm going to make Jack a touch younger... I've settled on seven for now, mostly because I don't buy eight year old Jack Hotchner throwing a tantrum haha. I haven't decided what I'm doing with the Beth storyline. I used to love the character but since she's made absolutely no appearance on-screen season 9 (except for in flashback mode), I strongly feel that the relationship is implausible and I just generally find it annoying now. I might add it in later, which will push the relationship back in the show's timeline, we'll see.

_Thank you so much for your reviews, they are so inspiring. I'm pretty new to this writing for an audience thing so I have to tell you it is such an amazing feeling to look at the traffic graph and see that there are people from practically every continent who have even looked at my story. It's so encouraging! I hope you enjoy this chapter. I know things are grim right now but I have plans for things to slowly get better. Peace. x_

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><p><em>"A child seldom needs a good talking to,<em>  
><em> as a good listening to."<em>

~Robert Braul

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><p>"Jack, I'm not going to ask you again," Aaron Hotchner threatened, offering his darkest parental glare as his arms folded across his chest in frustration.<p>

His seven year old son was currently slumped in the middle of his bedroom floor, face first into the carpet, refusing to come and eat his dinner. This was the second night in the past week and around the eleventh time in the past month where the FBI agent had engaged in this particular battle. And despite his unnerving ability to bend the arms of the most notorious psychopaths and serial killers, when it came to his child he was at his wits' end.

By nature, Jack Hotchner was generally a very placid, happy kid. Like all children, he did occasionally get stroppy when he was over-tired, but on the whole and particularly considering the trauma he'd experienced as a small child, he had always been incredibly well behaved. So naturally as this pattern of bad behaviour had started to grow and Aaron had failed both to identify its source and find a way to control it, the tension in their household had increased significantly.

"I already told you I don't wanna eat!" Jack yelled into the ground, thrashing his hand against the carpet to further emphasise his point.

"Well I don't care if you don't want to eat, you have to eat" Aaron retorted, his voice stern as he came to stand closer to his son.

Jack felt his father moving closer toward him so he decided to remain completely still; deciding with his seven year old logic that perhaps if he just didn't acknowledge his Dad anymore then perhaps he would go away.

Aaron sighed loudly and put his hands on his hips, looking down at his son as he stood over him.

"Jack, I'm going to count to three and if you don't get up and go to the table then I will carry you there myself. And then you will eat and then you will have no dessert and there will be no television for a week. Do you understand me?"

He glared down at his son, who remained perfectly still, face down in the carpet.

"One"

Still no movement.

"Two" Hotch pushed, his intonation rising, inferring his growing impatience.

Hotch felt his frustration rise further; he'd known being a single parent was going to be a challenge, but this was just something else entirely. He actually didn't know if he could take much more.

"Three"

No movement.

"I warned you Jack" he scolded, disappointment seeping through his voice as he leaned down to pick up his child. Just as his hands made contact with the seven year old's body he started thrashing around violently, kicking his legs and arms about aimlessly.

"I DON'T WANNA EAT! I DON'T WANNA EAT! LET ME GO… LET ME-"

"JACK!" Hotch yelled sharply, his voice booming through the otherwise silent house. He had managed to get Jack into his arms now, not without receiving a kick to the stomach and a punch to the head.

"STOP IT!" Hotch demanded, trying to grab a hold of his son's arms before he caused some more serious damage.

"NO! PUT ME DOWN! I SAID I DON'T WANNA EAT! I DON'T WANNA! I DON'T WANNA!"

He kept thrashing around in the tall agent's arms, no longer small enough to be so easily restrained anymore. Between trying to dodge and control his flying arms and legs, Hotch was really struggling to keep a hold of his son.

"Jack I mean it if you don't sto-…. HOLY FREAKING CHRIST!" Hotch dropped his son roughly onto his fortunately nearby bed as he shoved his fist in his mouth and bit down on it hard, not only trying to redirect some of the pain he'd just received to his groin but also trying his hardest not to belt out the many expletives currently dancing on the tip of his tongue. He doubled over clutching himself with his free hand as he tried to remember how to breathe.

Meanwhile Jack had stopped his screaming and thrashing, momentarily frozen from the surprise of being so suddenly dropped to the bed. It took him several moments of looking at his father to understand what had happened.

Tentatively as Hotch still remained doubled over, trying to regain his composure, the small boy slid off his mattress and tottered over to his father, placing a gentle hand on his back.

"I'm sorry Daddy," he whispered, tears now brimming in his hazel eyes as he realised that his Dad was still in pain.

The both remained still for a little while, Jack too afraid to move and Hotch still trying to ease the throbbing.

When he finally felt the agony begin to drift away, the pain being replaced by an ache of sorts, he stood straight, running his hand through his hair looking down at his son. His expression instinctively grew soft as he saw the tears threatening to fall on his little baby face and he felt another ache, this time in his heart, at the sight of his boy so upset.

"It's okay Jack, I forgive you. I'm okay now" he reassured, masking any further discomfort he felt from his face. He bent down and picked his son up, hoisting him onto his hip and walking them both over to the bed on the other side of the room. He sat down on the soft mattress, putting Jack on his lap, albeit a little further away than he'd normally have him.

Jack seemed to have settled at his father's reassurance and had managed to keep his tears at bay. Yet, as Aaron's dark eyes roamed over his face, he couldn't help but still see the sadness so deeply engrained into it.

"Jack… what's this about?" he began, his tone soft, wanting to encourage communication not shut it down. From the moment Jack had said his first word, it had become incredibly important to Hotch that he maintained an open relationship with his son. It became imperative to him that he conveyed the importance of communication and encouraged his boy to express his feelings, not feel the need to hide them away. He was well aware of the fact that his own inability as a middle-aged man to adequately express his deepest feelings, those that were generally the most significant, largely derived from the broken relationship he had had with his own father. He didn't want to repeat the cycle with his own child.

"You love mac and cheese, you love fish fingers, you love spaghetti. Why are you refusing to eat everything I put in front of you?" he continued, his eyes meeting his sons, causing the smaller Hotchner to bury his face into his father's chest.

"Jack?"

He felt more than heard a muffled reply on his chest.

Sighing, Hotch gently pried his son off of his front.

"I can't hear you when you speak into my chest."

Jacks face fell down against his own chest, looking ever intently at the ground instead of his father's enquiring eyes.

"It's not the same," he answered quietly, kicking his feet gently together, looking at the way he could make the toes of his shoes line up perfectly. If he'd been watching his father's face, Jack would have seen the usually serious man pull a completely befuddled expression as he tried to interpret the meaning of his statement.

"The same as what?" he enquired, incredibly confused.

Jack seemed to recoil even more into himself, if that were possible. His body language was strongly conveying how uncomfortable this conversation was making him. His shoulders hunched slightly, subconsciously trying to turn his frame away from his Dad's prying eyes.

"The same as Emily makes" he whispered, as if he'd just uttered the most evil profanity.

Hotch felt his entire body stiffen and was sure his heart stopped beating for several seconds. He just blinked stupidly down at the back of his son's sandy brown hair as he tried to comprehend what he'd just said. Logically it made no sense; majority of the foods he'd just listed came straight out of a packet or the freezer. They'd taste the same no matter who prepared them. Which meant that the comment ran a lot deeper than him simply no longer enjoying the taste of the food.

It was his son's way of saying that he missed her.

And it broke his heart.

Swallowing hard he rubbed his hand up and down Jack's back soothingly. Emily was perhaps the one topic in their lives that Hotch had stopped actively encouraging them to have open communication about. He could see now how incredibly selfish that had been. He'd been so wrapped up in his own pain, wrapped up in the anguish he felt everyday as her absence only grew stronger and the fact that he'd lost her for good was further consolidated with each passing hour, that he'd failed to even pick up on how the loss was effecting Jack. He was hurting and he was angry, so he'd unknowingly made the topic taboo.

"When is she coming back Daddy?" he asked softly, his voice still quiet as if he knew he was treading on thin ice. He looked up, his bottom lip sticking out in a deep pout that just tore at Hotch's already broken heart.

He met his son's eyes sadly, wishing he had some alternative to offer him, but he didn't. He didn't believe in lying to his son to protect him. He did water things down when he knew they were too complex for his young mind to comprehend, but this wasn't something he could dilute. The fact was plain and simple.

"She's not Jack," he admitted quietly, breaking his eye contact to hide the turmoil that pooled in his dark eyes.

Jack wiggled on his lap, trying to move to see his Dad's face.

"Why did she leave?"

"I already told you" Aaron replied, trying to ignore how raw it still felt talking about her. It had been five weeks, four days and about twenty-one hours since she'd walked out of their lives, but if anything his torment had only increased infinitely.

"No you didn't."

"Yes, I did. She got a new job, I told you." Aaron rebutted.

"But Daddy she already has a job" Jack countered with force, having no idea that his arguments were just as excruciating as stab after stab to his father's chest.

"Yes, she did have a job," he conceded, how could he not? His son was simply echoing the arguments that had taunted his mind every single sleepless night since that Thursday.

"But then _why_ did she go?" Jack asked, getting whiny now.

Aaron didn't answer. He simply didn't know how to. He was completely lost in this dark abyss, these questions that had no satisfying answers, these maddening trains of thought that went round and round in circles, that made him question every word he'd ever uttered to her, made him question every judgement, every choice he'd made. This abyss that made him loathe himself, and loathe her. He was constantly teetering between fury and distraught.

"Dad" Jack spoke loudly, anger evident in his voice. Hotch pulled himself out of the rabbit hole, realising Jack had slipped off his lap without his noticing and was now standing in front of him, giving him a glare that so strongly resembled his own.

Hotch rubbed his temple, his head was hurting, his groin was sore, his heart was aching. He was so tired. So incredibly tired. He looked helplessly at his son, wishing he could fix the pain he so very much understood.

"Why did she go?" Jack insisted, sounding almost antagonistic and way beyond his age.

"I… I don't know Jack," he lied.

_Emily had just forced him lie to his child._

"Well can I call h-"

"No." Hotch cut him off, his tone severe leaving absolutely no room for argument as he stood, metaphorically hauled himself out of his state of misery for the time being, his attention back on the matter at hand.

"But-" Jack began to protest, following his Dad with hurried footsteps as he started to walk out of the room. He turned back to look down at his son, using his height advantage to add to his already threatening glare, hoping to somewhat coerce him with fear into obedience.

"I said no. Dinner table. Right no-" he stopped mid-sentence as his eye caught something sitting on top of Jack's nightstand.

Jack followed his Dad's eyeline and seemed to realise what he was looking at, stepping back into the room and trying to block the piece of furniture with his small body.

Aaron once more softened his features, crouching down to Jack's level, resting his forearms on his knees as he balanced on the balls of his feet.

"Buddy, please go to the dinner table. I'll be there in a minute okay?" he said calmly, Jack too young to notice the slight touch of a plea evident in his request.

Jack looked unsure for a moment, but nodded slowly and ran off out of the bedroom.

Hotch rubbed his face again wearily as he stood up, sluggishly making his way over to the bedside table. Reaching it, he grasped the corner of the photograph just peeking out of Jack's favourite bedtime story book and pulled it out, placing it on top of the novel, not trusting himself to hold it. He reached down and gently traced the happy smiling faces of three people with his index finger. Himself on the right, Jack on the left, and Emily's face squished in the middle between their own. He and Jack had been giving her a birthday sandwich hug when Garcia happened to snap the picture. His fingers lingered over Emily's face; her eyes were squinted tightly as she grinned ear to ear. The photo was so candid, so perfectly full of joy.

And this was only last October. Nine months ago.

When had everything gone so wrong?

He quickly shoved the photo back into the book and practically bolted out of the room, shutting the door tight behind him. Leaning back on the hard oak for a moment, he shut his eyes and willed himself to breathe.

_One deep inhale…one long exhale…one deep inhale….one long exhale. _

And then he snapped his eyes open and headed toward the dining room. As he walked he schooled his features back into their habitually stoic state and shoved his pain back below the surface, knowing full well that it would catch up with him later that night anyhow.

It always did.

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><p><em>AN again: I don't have a lot of experience with kids, but I feel Jack Hotchner's character is pretty intelligent and would be quite perceptive and probably even somewhat precocious, so I don't feel his level of cognitive engagement here was too beyond plausibility, but please let me know if you disagree._

_Also as a girl, I've never been kicked in the balls so I have no idea what it feels like. I'm sorry if the description wasn't quite adequate haha._


	3. Zugzwang (I)

_A/N: I cannot publish this without publically acknowledging the immense influence the work of Sienna27 and Kavileighanna has had on me. I'm not even sure if they'll read this story but I have to say that they inspire me to no end. I spend hours and hours and hours reading their work. Without their great archives of Hotchniss brilliance, I highly doubt this story would even be in existence. Seriously, if you haven't read their work before, go and check it out!_

_Love and peace. xx_

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><p><em>"They say time heals all wounds,<em>

_but that presumes the source of the grief __is finite" _

_~ Cassandra Clare._

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><p>She felt as though the walls of the corridor either side of her were about to swallow her whole. And the faster she walked, the faster that feeling of inevitable doom engulfed her. With each step her desperation to move faster elevated; yet with every elevated feeling of desperation, her movements only felt as though they were becoming slower and more mechanical. Her hotel door, which she was so desperately seeking, seemed further and further from reach.<p>

This was just like the stuff of nightmares.

Only, her nails had been digging into her palms the past two minutes, and she wasn't waking up.

She could hear him now, his heavy, decisive footsteps stalking up behind her. Her skin broke out in goosebumps, hairs standing up on the back of her neck as the tension and dread further set into her body.

_'Move, move, move'_ her brain pleaded with her muscles, hastily forcing one leg in front of the other with the quickest paces she could muster.

But no matter how hard she willed and how quickly she tried to get her limbs to advance, she could feel him closing in and she was forgetting how to breathe.

And then he had her arm, his large leathery hand gripping her left forearm tightly, pulling her backward as he tried to force her to an abrupt halt.

"Stop" he commanded, his voice fierce and anything but friendly.

She felt the tears burning, her head was spinning. She started struggling, pulling her arm desperately as she forced her feet to keep moving, dragging him with her.

"Get off me" she implored, her voice weak in contrast to her violent actions.

She somehow managed to wriggle from his grasp and practically started to jog as the hysteria began to overtake her. The logical side of her brain somewhere registered that even if she broke out in a sprint; she stood no chance of escaping him. Yet the intensity of panic running through her in that moment completely quashed any of those rational thoughts.

He on the other hand was too overcome with determination in that moment to even register the fury he was currently harbouring toward her. He couldn't believe that after all this time apart, she simply just wouldn't face him. That she was still running. Down a damn hallway.

His long strides only became firmer after she managed to slip from his fingers. Each foot hit the ground with a forceful, unwavering thud.

_'Nearly there. Just a little faster. One more, left, right, one more, hands out.'_

His hands reached out and he grabbed her, this time more forcefully with two hands wrapping around her slender arms, physically dragging her backwards.

She turned around in his arms; violently shaking off the hands he'd grabbed her with, glaring up at him with a look of utmost disgust and loathing. Fat tears streaking down her pale complexion evidently without her consent.

And then she was screaming in his face, apparently not caring in the slightest that they were in a very public hotel hallway, and everybody could hear them. Despite wanting nothing more that to be completely out of his reach, she hauled herself forward at him, the tops of their toes inches away as she used all the might she could muster from her voice to get her point across, straight into his face.

"NO. Stop it. I told you to g-"

He silenced her by roughly bringing his hands to her face and pulling her toward him, his lips capturing her own in a tender kiss. He held her firmly as he brazenly forced his tongue between her lips and his fingers curled and tugged callously on her dark silky hair. There was so much passion and concern etched into that kiss he left her with no room to misunderstand it.

She pushed hard against his chest, shaking her head aggressively to escape his grasp as she shoved him away. She shook her head, wrapping her arms around herself, her feet doing an awkward shuffle back as she tried to regain control of herself and decided which way to run; into his arms or as far as possible. Her shoulders began to shake as her silent tears turned into sobs.

He stood back in silence, regarding her properly, seeing how utterly pitiful she looked. Her alabaster face was an unpleasant red as the heat from her unyielding tears stained her complexion. She'd lost quite a noticeable amount of weight since he'd last had the pleasure of laying eyes upon her. She no longer held those supple curves that had made her so womanly and so effortlessly intoxicating. Instead her clavicles poked out of her top, and her hip bones were now sharply visible under the thin fabric of her skirt. He raked his eyes back up to her face, his piercing eyes meeting her watery ones: those ever-encompassing orbs were now surrounded by unfamiliar dark circles that only seemed to age her.

It made his heart ache to see her this way.

She looked sickly. A deplorable shadow of herself.

And she was trying to argue that leaving had been the right choice? That London was truly bringing her the peace and happiness that being here, being home with the team, with Jack, with him, could apparently not?

What a joke.

Their eyes were locked as her tears continued to cascade down her cheeks; both dark pairs so full of anguish, despair, anger and the smallest trace of longing. He had so many things he needed to say, so many things he wanted to scream at her. At this point their current location had also been rendered unimportant to Aaron. She was here in front of him. This moment, which he'd spent the past year, not only dreaming of, but also yearning for, had finally arrived. He wasn't about to let her just walk away again. Not without getting answers. Not without having his time to have out it with her.

She owed him that.

He took a small step toward her, his hand outstretching at the same time without his volition. He couldn't just stand there and watch her dissolve into complete misery. He needed to comfort her. To tell her that despite his immense frustration with her, she was still not alone.

She had never, and would never truly be alone.

Yet the second she detected movement she sprinted away, and before he barely had time to blink she'd gotten a good five paces from him and was not looking as though she was about to slow down at all.

He sighed dejectedly as he watched her frame retreat into the distance, eventually making a left turn. His heart ached in a way he hadn't allowed himself to for some months now. There was a physical pain constricting his chest, a throbbing that made him feel so ill he couldn't see himself ever feeling any form of light again.

He'd really forgotten long ago what light actually felt like.

Counting to five silently he at least made sure she had time to get to her room before going after herself again. While his hands remained fisted at his sides, he forced himself to calm, disallowing his feet from moving an inch before his breathing was once more even and he had some semblance of control.

A couple minutes later he exhaled deeply as he brought his still fisted fingers to the thin plywood door, rapping on it twice.

"Please open the door," he requested, his voice firm but with an unmistakable thread of weakness running through it. He raised his left hand to lean against the side of the door frame and shut his weary eyes bracing for the rejection he was sure was coming.

Emily was still shaking on the other side of the door, she'd been trying to box away each of the emotions she was feeling but it wasn't working. She'd increasingly realised since she left the States that her method of coping was not really working at all anymore.

Because as much as she hated to admit it to herself, somewhere over that time since they'd captured Doyle and she'd regained her _freedom,_ she had lost the ability to cope on her own. And for as long as she could remember, the thing that Emily truly founded her identity on, was her unique ability to stand independent and be a rock for others. She'd been forced to learn early on in the most fundamental years of life how to deal with her problems alone, and subsequently found an outlet in helping make the world an easier place for those around her.

But being forced to stay in hiding to the point of being afraid of her own shadow for such a prolonged time had taken it's toll on her. She'd had to spend every minute of that time in Paris compartmentalising the emotions that were consuming her. It was the only way for her to keep her sanity. She couldn't focus on staying vigilant, on staying alive, while allowing herself to wallow in the feelings of self-loathing, loneliness, fear, rage, guilt, longing and hope that taunted her soul. Her ability to compartmentalise was the only thing that had kept her breathing, the only thing that stopped her pulling the trigger against her own head and ending her torture. Yet it had been so excruciatingly exhausting.

Little did she realise at the time that her coping mechanism came at a high price. It resulted in splitting her into tiny little fragments, all so neatly separated and boxed. Robbing her of her identity and the ability to be whole person.

So when she was given the chance to come home, she returned as a broken person. A broken person who was beyond exhaustion.

And then she fell into Aaron.

Sweet, sweet Aaron, with all of his patience, all of his tolerance. Happy to sit there and just be with her. The only one who never pushed her to recover, who never pushed her to do anything, he just let her be. He understood how broken she'd become, he understood how tired she was. He understood that what had happened to her, wasn't going to just go away with a few therapy sessions.

He understood that what she'd gone through had changed her indefinitely.

And yet he didn't care about any of those things. He was still willing to…still _wanted to_ sit by her, to support her, to love her, even with how screwed up she'd become. As she lost the ability to protect herself, he became her protector. Physically, but more notably, emotionally.

They spent a lot of time playing house. And during that time she very rarely opened up about what had happened to her, about what she actually was feeling. Yet he seemed to just know. And his silent, consistent presence was something that she had somehow come to depend on, even if she never explicitly expressed that to him. She let herself get to the point where she couldn't go a day anymore without speaking to him even about some form of meaningless chitchat. His presence became her cornerstone.

And as the intensity of his feelings for her grew, she studied behaviour for a living after all, it didn't take long for her to catch on, she started to feel overcome with panic that she couldn't contain.

He'd been through so much. The divorce: which had scared him so deeply and provided him with the persistent 'I'm failing Jack' complex that he'd never been able to shake. Foyet: which to this day she knew, still, and always would hurt him. She knew he still carried the guilt of Haley's murder as his burden. Then her, and Doyle, and him having to lie to the team, the people who were the closest thing he had to family, for eight straight months, just in order to protect her. She was the reason for so many relational strains among the team. They had started to heal; the road was looking up when she fled to London. But they all still harboured some lingering resentment toward Hotch and JJ.

And above all, as she had gotten to know him, she had learned that one of Aaron's biggest insecurities as unit chief was that he had always felt that as their leader, he was somewhat naturally segregated from the team. He knew he came off as cold and often unapproachable, but he didn't want to. It had taken him until after Foyet to really understand that they didn't see him that way. Yes he was their boss, but he was also Aaron Hotchner, devoted father and family man. And his team cared about that man too; they saw him as a friend.

She had stolen that from him.

And her forcing him to betray them had basically taken him back to square one; it had fostered fresh distrust between him and the rest of the unit.

The Lady X case had really confirmed her decision for her. Not just because Clyde had provided her with an out, but because she couldn't not notice the level of intensity he'd directed at her in the aftermath of the case. They had reached the point where even on the field, where his behaviour was at its most controlled, his conduct in regard to her could no longer be considered unbiased.

She'd known that telling him she was leaving would surface those emotions they had both been grappling so desperately to contain.

But she didn't see that she had a choice.

He deserved so much better than what she could give him.

And more pressingly, she'd come to realise that she couldn't keep going on like this. Her sanity and solace could not be based upon something so fragile as another human's life.

She had to somehow retrain herself to find that strength from within.

She had to put herself back together, alone.

If she didn't get out, she knew she'd never truly find herself again. And life would be damaging, both for her and for him.

She never meant to hurt him this way, but it was a necessity born of the culmination the mess that was her past.

"Emily"

She heard him calling her again through the door. His voice had changed. The anger and frustration from moments ago was gone, replaced with pain and desperation.

Her tears only fell faster.

She felt so darn conflicted. Hearing him in that much anguish, knowing that she was causing that hurt, tore her apart. It literally caused agony throughout her whole body. Physical agony. Knowing that pain was in his heart, that she'd run away after allowing him to become that attached and caused him that pain. That was what tortured her every night when she went to bed and failed to find sleep.

Yet she knew if she caved, she was only hurting him more. If she let him in, which is selfishly all she wanted at this point, she was only doing it to then push him away again.

"I'm not leaving Em"

His voice was soft, full of dejection.

She threw her arms down in frustration as she paced frantically between the door and the armchair in the middle of her suite. She half let out a hysterical sob and half groaned as she roughly brought her hands up to her face and hastily rubbed the moisture away. She flung the door open, and then just froze as she took in just how broken he looked.

And then she sobbed harder, her arms coming up to hug around her middle as she practically fell into his chest.

"Aa- _sob- _ron" she wailed into his shirt, shaking her head as his arms encircled her.

She couldn't breathe; her cries were constricting her throat, blocking her nose. Her arms remained fixed around her own stomach, yet her body seemed to only nestle further into his reassuring embrace.

"I… I… I…" she kept trying to mumble into his chest, but her body was too focused on the physical release of her misery to even start to begin deciphering the contradicting thoughts taunting her mind into comprehensible speech.

He rubbed his strong hand along her back in soothing circles as he held her steadfast against his body, allowing himself to indulge in the familiar scent of vanilla and cinnamon in her soft hair.

"I know, I know," he whispered.

He allowed his eyes to slip closed, simply in awe that this was even real, that she was really here, stateside, in his arms. His mind wandered back over the events of the past three hours…

* * *

><p><em>The cathedral. The sombreness. <em>

_The funeral._

_Reid expressed some utterly raw emotion, in a way they'd never seen before. And Hotch had felt at a complete loss; he didn't know how to support the young genius. Toward the end of the service he turned around, unable to keep his eyes trained on Spencer, or on the beautiful young innocent face of Maeve Donovan, framed so inanimately in a photograph. _

_His dark eyes roamed over the church, over the many grieving faces, all wondering, no doubt, how such an evil could be committed over a life so short. _

_And then he'd spotted her, sitting quietly in the back pew. _

_And his heart stopped as his eyes blinked rapidly._

_Emily. His Emily. Was here, in the church. The woman who'd slipped from his fingers in the blink of an eye, was home…_

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: Originally this was supposed to be one single chapter, but it was getting really long, and I was afraid if I didn't post this somewhere I'd just get overwhelmed with the enormity of it and never post it. So I'm sorry for stopping mid-way through but the ideas for this next part are already firmly in my mind. **_  
><em><strong>Thanks for reading! <strong>_


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